


Dreams Mingled with Happiness

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Related, Canonical Character Death, Canonical injury, Established Relationship, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Healing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:02:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24021787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: Marius’s attempt to heal after the barricade suffers a setback when he is delivered a set of letters from an unsuspected source: Courfeyrac.
Relationships: Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Courfeyrac/Marius Pontmercy, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Implied/Referenced Relationship(s)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 56
Collections: Les Mis Big Bang: Quarantine Edition





	Dreams Mingled with Happiness

**Author's Note:**

> For the Les Mis Big Bang (Quarantine edition). Thanks to [moonlighteponine](https://moonlighteponine.tumblr.com/) and [cantando_siempre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantando_siempre/works) for beta-ing!
> 
> My partner in crime who not only helped develop this idea but also made the absolutely extraordinary art is the incredible everyonewasabird ([tumblr](https://everyonewasabird.tumblr.com/) | [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/everyonewasabird/pseuds/everyonewasabird)), so please show them some love as well!
> 
> Usual disclaimer. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos!

“Marius?”

Marius blinked, Cosette’s face swimming into view where she hovered half out of the armchair she had previously occupied, concern in every premature line that creased her otherwise radiant face, and Marius wondered how many times she had repeated his name before he noticed. “I apologize,” he said, managing a slight smile. “I fear I am poor company this morning.”

Cosette’s face softened, and she settled again in her seat. “Of course not,” she scoffed, something gentle in her tone. “You are the best of company, even in the worst of times.”

Marius laughed, though it was with little humor. He knew as well as she that he had been lost in his own thoughts more frequently than usual in days past, though he had little understanding why. His body was on the mend, but his mind was wont to wander, often wandering far away from the house he shared with his grandfather, and even away from his daily visits with his betrothed.

Far away back to the barricade that now existed solely in the recesses of his mind, and to the ghosts of the friends he had lost there.

“Marius?” Cosette repeated, even more gently this time, and Marius knew what tight smile he might give her would do little in way of reassurance, just as the kiss he would press to her brow would do little to smooth the furrows of concern that he feared might end up permanent marks against her smooth skin.

He was about to respond to her, to come up with some weak excuse for where his mind had been, when his grandfather’s servant, Basque, appeared in the doorway, hovering concernedly. “Excuse me,” Marius said to Cosette, standing and crossing to Basque, trying to ignore the limp that slowed his step.

“Monsieur Pontmercy, forgive me,” Basque said. “There is someone here to see you, and he was most insistent.”

“Is everything alright?” Cosette asked, rising, and Marius turned back to her. 

“An unexpected visitor,” he said, his smile more genuine even as it was more apologetic this time. “Pray, give me but a moment, and I promise I shall return to your side.”

Cosette smiled at him as he took her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Hurry back to me,” she said simply, and Marius inclined his head before following his butler out of the room and towards the foyer.

The man waiting for Marius was rotund in the way that exuded wealth, the buttons of his waistcoat straining just slightly against his stomach, and he looked most unimpressed as Marius limped across the hall towards him. “Marius Pontmercy?” he asked.

“That is I,” Marius said, drawing himself to his full height. “And with whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

The man scowled, his nostrils flaring slightly as he said stiffly, “I am Monsieur Delacroix.”

He said it as if his name should be enough for Marius, who arched an eyebrow, clearly waiting for the man to elaborate. The man’s scowl deepened when he realized Marius did not recognize him. “I am a solicitor,” he said sourly. “I am retained as private counsel for a number of prominent families.”

“I apologize,” Marius said, after another uncomfortable silence. “If you have been retained by my grandfather, I fear that you find me unaware—”

“I am here,” Delacroix interrupted, “because I have been retained as counsel for the de Courfeyracs.”

The name felt like a blow to Marius’s stomach, and he blanched, reaching out blindly to steady himself against a wall. “The de Courfeyracs?” he repeated, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears.

“Yes,” Delacroix said, and if he had any indication that he recognized what Marius was feeling, he did not show it. “And as counsel, I am here in my capacity as executor of the youngest Courfeyrac’s last will and testament.”

“Courf—” Marius whispered, his expression ashen.

Delacroix retrieved a bundle of letters from his valise and extended them to Marius. “Mr. de Courfeyrac intended that upon his death, these be delivered to you,” he said, and Marius reached out with a trembling hand to take the bundle, tracing his thumb over the familiar writing across the front of the top letter.

“Marius?” 

Again it was Cosette who spoke his name, appearing in the hallway behind him, but this time, Marius remained frozen, staring down at the letters in his hand, and he only vaguely felt Cosette’s hand slip around his arm, just as he barely heard Delacroix say, concern sharp in his voice, “Monsieur Pontmercy?”

The letters tumbled from Marius’s hands, and the world swam before his eyes before everything went black.

* * *

Marius’s eyes slowly fluttered open, everything seeming opaque for a moment before his vision sharpened. “You’re awake,” he heard Cosette say, relief evident in her voice, and he turned his head, blinking at where she sat next to his bed, a wet cloth in her hand as if she had been dabbing his forehead with it.

In fact, that had been almost certainly what she had been doing, as he felt rivulets of water drip down his face as he struggled to sit up. “Be careful,” Cosette said, slightly sharper this time, as she reached out to steady him. “You gave me quite a fright.”

Her voice trembled just slightly as she said, and Marius reached out to take her hand between both of his. “And for that, I shall never forgive myself,” he murmured.

Cosette shook her head. “There’s no need for that,” she told him, managing a tight smile. “Just as long as you listen to the physician now. You have tried to do too much, too soon. You must rest.”

“I will,” Marius promised. 

She rested her hand lightly against his cheek before pulling it away. “Then I shall leave you to it,” she told him, but he did not release her hand, instead entwining their fingers and raising their clasped hands to his lips to kiss her knuckles.

“Promise you will return on the morrow?” he asked.

Cosette looked torn between fondness and exasperation. “You must rest,” she repeated. “And if my visits are doing you more harm than good—”

“Never,” Marius told her. “They are the best restorative I have ever had. I shall go easy on myself, I swear it, but only if you always return to my side.”

Cosette bent down and pressed a light kiss to Marius’s brow. “And always I shall,” she whispered before straightening. “But now you must rest.” She turned to leave, pausing only to add, “And when you find your strength returned, I placed the letters from that lawyer upon your bedside table for you to read.”

In an instant, Marius felt as weak as he had when first he had woken from the fits of fever and illness that ravaged him after the barricade, and he barely noticed Cosette slipping out of his bedchamber, staring up at the ceiling as if it might hold what answers he sought.

After a long moment, he exhaled heavily and rolled onto his side, instantly seeing the bundle of letters where they were piled on the table next to his bed. He supposed there was little harm now that could be done from reading Courfeyrac’s words – or at least, no more harm than the pain he felt like a constant throb in his chest.

He reached out for the letters and pulled the stack onto the bed. Again, he felt the familiar pang at the sight of Courfeyrac’s handwriting, but this time, he pushed it aside, focusing for the first time on what was written on the paper: his own name, of course, and his grandfather’s. But in the top corner of each piece of folded parchment was also scrawled a date.

He sorted through the letters almost mindlessly, ordering them from the oldest to the most recent, and as he brushed his fingers over the date _1 June 1832_ , he froze. 

What words had Courfeyrac had for him in the end?

And was Marius brave enough to face them?

He swallowed, hard, and set the final letter down, instead picking up the oldest letter, dated in February 1832, just shortly after he had gone to stay with Courfeyrac, if his memory served him correctly. He opened the letter and carefully unfolded it, smoothing it against his chest before lifting it to read it.

 _My dearest Marius,_ Courfeyrac had written,

_As I write this letter to you by the light of my candle, you sleep on the mattress next to mine. When this letter finds you, it will be once the dust has settled, and if I know you at all, you will be married in short time to your beloved._

_It is with that in mind that I knew I must write, must put pen to paper to warn you of what only I know, of what could cast a pall upon the life you seek to build._

_My dear, dear man, it is no easy thing for me to bear this news to you, but alas, it is my duty—_

_You snore. Loud enough to wake the dead. Warn your beloved, lest she marry you and get not a single night’s sleep after._

Marius couldn’t quite stop the startled laugh that punched out of him, though he quickly raised a hand to his mouth to stifle it. He could hear the words in his head as if Courfeyrac sat in the room with him, murmuring them in his ear, but for the first time in what seemed like forever, the thought of that – the thought of Courfeyrac alive, whole, here with him – didn’t make Marius’s heart ache.

He looked back at the letter, eagerly drinking in the rest of Courfeyrac’s words.

_Now that my duty to your beloved is complete, I turn to the true purpose of this letter. I know not what lies ahead in the weeks and months to come, only that what stirs in the hearts of the people grows with each passing day. I know also, since first I met you some three years hence, that I am meant to teach you and guide you as best as I am able._

_And now, it seems, my time to do so may be less than anticipated._

_How do I distill what is most important for you to know into mere paragraphs that I write here? I know not, but this is my task, and I shall see to it that if the worst happens and we are parted, I leave you in far better a condition than I found you._

_For now, my candle grows short – an apt metaphor, Prouvaire might note, for our remaining time together – so I shall leave you with but this thought, and a promise of more to follow—_

_If your nighttime breathing does not improve, I would recommend your beloved take a page from Odysseus’s book, and use beeswax to seal her ears against the affront._

_Faithfully yours, I remain,  
_ _Courfeyrac_

Marius felt the tears that pricked in the corners of his eyes, and he made no effort to halt their fall. Carefully, he refolded the letter and returned it to his bedside table, pausing for only a moment before returning the rest of the letters as well.

As much as he ached to know the rest of the words Courfeyrac had put to paper for his eyes to one day read, he knew he would regret it if he read them all in a single sitting. This was a rare treat, one that must be drawn out and savored.

No matter how much he longed to again hear Courfeyrac’s voice in his head as he read his words.

No matter how much he wished, as he closed his eyes and lay back against his pillow, that the man himself was there with him.

* * *

Cosette had not returned to visit the following day, sending a note instead telling him that no matter how much she longed to see him, she knew he needed his rest. While ordinarily Marius might be inclined to disagree, he still felt weak, weaker than he had in months, and he spent the day sleeping fitfully in his bed.

The following day found him up and walking once more, and when Cosette joined him that day, he was able to focus almost his entire attention on her, only staring off into space a few times.

He had decided to put the letters off until he next felt strong enough to tackle them, but in some ways his decision was made for him, almost a week after the arrival of his letters, as he walked Cosette to the door, her hand resting lightly on the crook of his arm. She paused and glanced up at him. “I wanted to ask,” she started, something almost uncertain in her tone, “what was in those letters you received?”

Marius froze. Once he would not have hesitated before sharing the letters with Cosette – once, he would have thought that sharing every moment of his life with his beloved was the best for which he could hope or wish.

But now, staring the moment in the face, he could not bring himself to tell her.

“It was nothing,” he said, forcing a smile. “Just some unfinished business.”

Cosette did not seem reassured, searching his expression for a long moment. “Are you certain that is all it was?” she asked gently, and he reached out and squeezed her hands.

“I assure you, if it were anything more serious, you would be the first to know.”

Though Cosette managed a smile, it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Well,” she said, “just know that you can tell me anything. Serious or otherwise.”

She darted forward to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth before taking her leave, and only after the door shut after her did Marius’s smile disappear, lost to the cloud of ill feelings that rose within him as he turned to trudge up the stairs.

He told himself that he was protecting Cosette by not telling her what he had read in the first letter. After all, why should she share his burden, his grief? Surely if he loved her, he would not trouble her with the memories of one she had never met.

Besides, how could he possibly explain to her the men who had died on that barricade, men he had loved even if he never knew many of them as well as he would have liked? How could he explain the bond he felt by being a witness to their deaths when he had barely been a witness to their lives?

And even if the words existed for him to give Cosette a glimpse into the turmoil of regret and grief he felt ever swirling within him, there was a part of Marius that wanted to cling to what memories he had, to keep them for himself, as if sharing them might lose them forever.

It was better this way.

Of that, he was certain.

Still, as he made his way slowly up the stairs to return to his bedchamber, he could not help but feel slightly guilty, and in his guilt – more alone than he had felt before.

Alone enough that when he reached his bed, for lack of anything else to stir him from his doldrums, he grabbed another letter from the stack, one dated shortly after the first, and he flopped back on his bed before opening it and scanning the letter’s contents.

_My dearest Marius,_

_First and foremost, my apologies for how quickly my previous letter erred from its intended purpose, though in my defense – and as one who has studied the law, you would know well how valid a defense this may be – your snoring was most loud and I was quite distracted from my original purpose._

_This eve, I have stayed behind at the Musain, and the only one here who might distract me is Grantaire, who I fear is far more distracted than I, chasing what relief a bottle might bring._

_But alas! To better topics._

_A conversation between Bahorel and Joly stirred my memory, and I have determined that my first duty to you is to impart what I know of fashion, and, more importantly, how you might use it to woo your beloved._

What followed in the letter was various descriptions of what Courfeyrac clearly saw as dashing fashions to which Marius should adhere, all of which, inexplicably, involved a swordcane. 

Marius, knowing far too well that Courfeyac’s personal style skewed much too flamboyant for his own tastes, mostly skimmed the next several paragraphs, instead focusing when Courfeyrac seemed to lose his own focus, his various descriptions of outfits tapering toward discussions of their friends.

_Make note how a signature color may elevate an otherwise plain look. Take, for example, our noblest Enjolras, and how the scarlet he wears stands as testament to the red of the words he utters. Or else, on the contrary end of the spectrum, the muted green of Grantaire, how it stands to complement the brash red of Enjolras, as much as their personalities may complement one another._

_Not, of course, that I would ever mention as such to them. Despite my actions at the end – assuming, of course, that I met a noble end ahead of these letters finding their way into your hands – I do value my life for what little it may prove to be worth._

_Of course, Enjolras and Grantaire are not the only amongst our number who may share clothes that complement one another. Why, just the other day, when Enjolras found himself in the midst of what one might describe (though certainly never to his face) as a screed, Joly and Bossuet, less into their cups than Grantaire, decided it might behoove them to slip away for but an hour in order to liaise with the mistress they share._

_And indeed, Enjolras was deep enough in his own speech that few might have noticed their absence, save for but one fatal error – when they returned to our company, it was with their cravats switched. And Joly’s cravat knotted around Bossuet’s neck, and, of course, the reverse, was enough for even the most unobservant amongst us to realize what exactly had transpired when they slipped away._

_Needless to say, certain parties were more amused than others, which led to a perfect dissolution of what remained of the agenda for the day, and with Grantaire pressing cups of wine into everyone’s hands as they argued with one another, it dissolved even further from there._

_This was a few weeks ago, and I admit, it is only recently that bonds have been mended and bruised egos recovered. And all because of the wrong cravat tied around the wrong neck._

_Of course, I would never intend to insinuate that you might be unfaithful to your beloved, but on the off chance that your passions are stirred in the way that men’s passions oft are, here is but my advice to you – beware the cravat, my friend._

_Beware._

_Faithfully yours, I remain,  
_ _Courfeyrac_

Much as it had the first time, a laugh that Marius could not quite contain bubbled from within his chest, but this time he made no effort to stifle it, instead letting his loneliness subside at the thought of Joly and Bossuet as unintentional catalysts to the complete chaos that inevitably overtook their friends. He could see it clearly within his mind, the scene that had unfolded as Courfeyrac had described it, and part of him longed to have been there, to have witnessed it for himself.

That option was not available to him, but part of him was comforted to have just this piece of the camaraderie his friends had shared, to be able to bear witness, even secondhand, to their friendship and companionship.

That comfort was enough to assuage his guilt at not telling Cosette.

However fleeting that comfort might prove to be.

* * *

It might have become a pattern, Marius retreating to his bedchamber and taking comfort in another letter from Courfeyrac when his pain got too great or he was in an ill mood. He certainly did with two additional letters over the next few weeks, taking solace in the familiarity that came with each. Both letters began with a similar apology for straying from whatever Courfeyrac’s intended topic, and each continued to wander far from their stated purpose, filled less with words of wisdom and far more with anecdotes of their friends.

Truthfully, Marius welcomed the familiarity of the stories far more than he likely would the attempted advice, finding comfort in the delight Courfeyrac had clearly taken as he wrote of their friends and their antics, wasting hours and ink detailing the trivial squabbles, sundry hilarities and even occasional drunken debaucheries they all shared.

Again, he might’ve revelled in the comfort for the remainder of both the letters and his convalescence, were it not for the contents of the fifth letter.

As soon as he opened it, he realized he could barely read it. The parchment itself was frayed, and crumpled, as if it had been folded and refolded many times. Beyond just that, there was a perfectly circular stain of dark crimson over the middle of the letter, as if from a bottle of wine being placed on it.

Marius squinted at the words but found them hard to read by just his candle. He considered setting it aside, but his curiosity got the best of him, and he pulled himself to his feet and limped to his grandfather’s library, where he knew the lamps would still be lit.

He settled at his grandfather’s reading desk and was glad to see that he could again read the words scrawled on the paper – and could now tell that most of them were not written in Courfeyrac’s familiar hand.

His brow puckered as he quickly scanned the contents of the letter, which certainly began with Courfeyrac’s writing, made sloppy as if he had been rushed.

_My dearest Marius,_

_I have less time this evening than anticipated, as Enjolras has given me an errand to run, one that apparently had been given to someone else who was unable to complete it. Pleased as I always am that Enjolras trusts me, it does rather limit what I had intended, and I’ll leave you only with this: a promise that I shall complete this letter on the morrow, and that it shall be worth the wait._

_Faithfully yours, I remain,  
_ _Courfeyrac_

It was at that point that the second hand took over, a sweeping, elegant hand that was somehow interrupted by frequent ink splotches, as if the elegance was an afterthought to the haste of the pen.

`It seems but fair,` the second part of the letter began, `that as Courfeyrac has gone to complete what I could not, I should finish what he has left undone. And so – here I set ink to paper, that I might make sense of my despair and paint for you with my words what I cannot, for all that I have tried, paint on a canvas.`

`Consider me Pygmalion, with eyes for but one ivory statue alone – though is not mine carved from fine marble? – but just as Galatea warmed not without godly intervention, so too may I hope for no kind word, no soft touch. And lo! Aphrodite, it seems, is deaf to my prayers, and the marble remains as cold as ever…`

The next several paragraphs devolved into little more than senseless rambling, and Marius skimmed through it without absorbing much of what had been written.

He was tempted to toss the entire letter aside, were it not for the sight of his own name, written towards the bottom of the page.

`—And to hear Courfeyrac tell it, Marius, you and your love are star-crossed as much as Pyramus and Thisbe, destined to ever circle one another, though perhaps one day to rewrite their story, lovers who can meet, who can touch. If you can – if you do – rewrite that story, I implore you, for both our sakes, do not fall onto your sword.`

`For even if your love is fleeting, even if she evades the permanence of your grasp, is it not better to know? To know that even for a moment, one has held true love within his grasp – that one has held lightning as only the gods can. `

`My own longing will never be answered, like Echo’s fateful words, only ever a pale imitation of that which I cannot ever truly have. And that agony cannot possibly be lesser than the knowledge one’s love is returned, even if one still cannot have it.`

`Or is it better to not know? Is it better to live within a dream where all things are possible, where possibility is boundless, where even the hopeless may be found? There is comfort in dreaming, as I have oft found, and perhaps that is enough.`

`Or else hope, springing ever eternal, is agony unto itself.`

`But hope and dream are my realms, and for you, remaining in the land of what will be rather than what could, you must promise that in whatever way you are able to have your love, or for however brief, you must hold onto it. Grasp it with both hands, lest it flee when you least expect. `

`All of the darkness in the world – and I have known more than my share of darkness – cannot withstand the singular light of love returned.`

At that point, there was another large inkblot, this time covering what Marius could only assume was the signature of the writer, and the only letter he could make out was a single R.

Below the blocked signature, cramped into the remainder of the page, Courfeyrac had taken over once more.

_Marius—_

_My apologies. I should have known better than to leave a letter unattended when an unusually morose Grantaire was around. I am including his words nonetheless, for while there is little value in much he has to say, there is also at least a grain of truth._

_Indeed, I wonder if I should not have introduced you and Grantaire properly before this moment. I feel as though you may have had more in common than I previously realized…_

_Faithfully yours, I remain,  
_ _Courfeyrac_

Marius folded the letter, smoothing his fingers almost absentmindedly against the creases. Whereas all of Courfeyrac’s former letters had brought him some sense of comfort, he found himself troubled by this installation, and he sat in his grandfather’s library for a long time after that, trying to find some semblance of peace in what he had read.

* * *

But peace, it seemed, was hard to find, and with each visit from Cosette, Marius found his mind wandering back to the rambling words he had read. And with each recollection of the words imploring him to do what he could to hold on to Cosette – and with each passing day that he continued to not tell Cosette about the contents of the letters – something grew in Marius.

Something that felt quite a bit like guilt.

He had told himself that he was protecting Cosette from the force of his grief by not telling her, but what if instead he was keeping her from a part of himself she deserved to know, if truly he was to have her love? She loved him for all his physical ailments; would she not also love him for the scars he bore on his soul?

Besides, had Cosette not proven thrice over that she was made of stronger stuff than Marius could ever have predicted, like a bird that weathered the worst winters and still sang in the springtime?

But how, he pondered, when he was meant to be reading Courfeyrac’s sixth letter and instead could not concentrate on a single word of his assuredly humorous tale of Feuilly mocking Bahorel and Bahorel proceeding to chase him around the Musain for a half an hour, how was he meant to tell her now, after keeping it from her for so long?

How was he meant to share the pain from which he had been determined to spare her?

The answer came, as answers are wont to do, before his mind was made up, and with a little help of fate.

Determined to find a way to explain to Cosette what perhaps he should have from the start, Marius turned to what comfort he could find in the next of Courfeyrac’s letters. He took it again to his grandfather’s library, content to scan it there before Cosette’s arrival that day, hoping for some kind of answer, or sign, or—

Truthfully, he knew not what he thought he might find, and what he stumbled upon when he opened the letter on his grandfather’s polished desk was certainly no sign.

Instead, he found another’s hand again gracing the page, this time a blocky scrawl interjected briefly between two paragraphs of Courfeyrac’s handwriting, and he ignored most of the content of the letters to instead satiate his curiosity at who this time had commandeered Courfeyrac’s letter.

_But as much as Prouvaire may be convinced that a cemetary is the best place for such meetings (because of the confluence of life and death or some such nonsense, I have failed to keep track), I am certain that you and I can both agree— Oh, Enjolras has been giving me the most foul of looks and I fear I have only just noticed, which almost certainly means he has spoken something in my general direction that I regrettably ignored. I must offer him some explanation now, and see that he does not stray from his scheduled sedition into what I could only describe as a lecture—_

**_If this conversation is so important as to disrupt a scheduled meeting, come to the Musain to continue it in person._ **

_Ah. I see Enjolras has not quite understood what I meant when I said I was writing you a note, though at least he seems satisfied with his scribbling on my letter and has not yet devolved into a soliloquy on the importance of—_

Marius found that he could not continue reading, tears blurring his eyes as he looked at the simple, curt command from Enjolras, simultaneously hilarious in its total misunderstanding of the situation, but equally cutting as a command frozen in time, a command he had never quite fulfilled, and could never again.

He raised a hand to his mouth to stifle the sob he could feel building in his chest, and at that very moment, he heard Cosette say, from the doorway, “Marius, I hope you do not mind—”

She broke off, and for one wild moment, Marius wondered what he must look like, hunched over his grandfather’s desk, a letter clenched in his hand as if it was his final tether to the world. However it looked, it was enough to cause Cosette to rush to his side, concern and something like fear etched in her face. “Marius?” she repeated, kneeling down next to him and grabbing his hand in hers.

Wordlessly, Marius pulled Cosette to him, embracing her and letting his tears finally fall. She stroked his hair gently, murmuring something soothing in his ear, though later he could not recall what she said.

After a long moment, he pulled away, reaching up to wipe the tears from his cheeks with the heel of his hand. “Forgive me,” he started, but she shook her head firmly.

“There is nothing to forgive,” she told him, before adding, “Though I wish you would tell me what troubles you so.”

If ever there was a moment for explanations, it was now or never, and Marius took a deep, shaky breath. “You know of my companions?” he asked softly. “From…”

He trailed off, but Cosette seemed to understand. “From the barricade?” she supplied softly. “Yes. At least, I know a little. Some of what you told me, from before.”

Marius nodded slowly. “One of them – Courfeyrac – I lived with him. His was the address I gave you when I hoped to meet with you before—” He did not finish the sentence, but he did not need to; they both knew of what he spoke. “He was...he was my greatest friend. And these letters…” He gestured at the letter on his grandfather’s desk. “He wrote them to me, knowing or fearing, perhaps, what was to come.”

Cosette nodded slowly, searching his expression. “And these letters,” she started, hesitantly, “have they been making what pains you worse?”

“No.” He said it so decisively that it took even himself aback for a moment, before he realized that what he spoke was true. “No, they have been more of a comfort than I can possibly say. They do not make up for the fact that Courfeyrac is not here with me, but they are as close as I can have, and I would not trade that for the world.”

Again Cosette nodded, and without releasing his hand, she drew a second chair up to the desk and sat down next to him. “Will you read me the letter?” she asked, and Marius stared at her.

“Why?” he asked blankly.

“I would like to share in this with you,” Cosette started, and Marius shook his head.

“No, I mean, would you not rather read it yourself?”

It was Cosette’s turn to shake her head, even as she smiled gently at him. “You knew him,” she said simply. “So you reading it to me will be like hearing it with his voice. And then I shall know him a little bit, too.”

For a long moment, Marius just stared at her. Then, without warning, he pulled her close and kissed her until they both needed to again draw breath. “I love you,” he told her.

“And I, you,” Cosette replied before settling in against his side, resting her head on his shoulder. “Now, read me these words from your Courfeyrac.”

Marius laughed shakily and lifted the letter toward the candle to better read it. “My dearest Marius,” he started, and Cosette laughed lightly.

“My dearest?” she repeated, teasingly. “Oh, I like him already.”

Marius smiled. “I knew you would,” he told her, before returning to the letter, his heart feeling lighter than it had in months.

* * *

This, then, became their routine, and what a routine it was, spending some of their time together dedicated to Marius reading out loud to Cosette from one of Courfeyrac’s letters. Oft these readings would be accompanied by an explanation of each of the players, and Cosette laughed in all the right places as Marius explained Joly and Bossuet, and Bahorel and Feuilly. She hummed with appreciation of Prouvaire’s poetry; stirred with excitement at Enjolras’s oratory; listened studiously as Marius told her of Combeferre’s wisdom; and was, at the last, somber at the loss written in Grantaire’s words.

She may never have known them, but in those moments, Marius felt as if the men lived and breathed and walked amongst them, and he himself felt almost whole again.

At first, he read the letters either at his grandfather’s desk or in the room they used to meet, but upon opening the ninth of Courfeyrac’s letters, he asked if she might mind terribly if they sat in the parlor by the window, so that he might use the sunlight by which to read. The tenth letter was read at the dining room table as he and Cosette shared tea. And the eleventh letter he read aloud to her as they slowly walked outside in the garden, Cosette’s hand resting in the crook of his arm.

So caught up was he in the reading that he almost forgot about his limp as they walked together.

Even as he grew stronger, even as they shared these moments together, Marius could not help but notice that the tenor of Courfeyrac’s letters changed with each successive missive. Gone were the cheery tales of late-night camaraderie, or at least, those stories were relegated to mere passing mentions. Instead, Courfeyrac’s words turned introspective as the dates of each letter grew closer to that fateful June, his musings turning to his regrets, the fears of things he would leave undone, the wishes he had for his future, and his hopes for Marius’s future.

 _I know you long for family,_ he wrote in the tenth letter _, but if there is a lesson here I might impart to you, it is that family is something you must make for yourself. Scripture tells of a man leaving his father and mother, but what it does not tell is that becoming one flesh does not just mean marriage. It means brotherhood; it means friendship. It means, on occasion, adopting a stray friend who is suddenly forced to flee his accommodations._

_And I would have it no other way! I left my parents and I shed the dreaded ‘de’ in front of my surname, and it was so that I could find my family here, and there is naught for which I would trade these hours and days._

_My greatest wish is that you, too, find your family. It likely will not look like how you had hoped, but I have no doubt that it will be filled with joy, and love, and your beloved at your side for the rest of your days._

The feeling Marius felt reading those words out loud with Cosette seated at his side was incomparable, as much as Cosette smiling at him and squeezing his hand, as if she knew, as if she understood.

But even that could not compare to reading the words of Courfeyrac’s eleventh letter aloud while walking with Cosette, the words stirring such warmth and sadness in Marius at once.

_I have had many lovers in my day, but never a love like your beloved. Much as I tease you these days for the late nights you spend sneaking away to see your beloved – you may think yourself coy, as if we do not recognize why you disappear for hours at end, but you are as all young lovers, aglow with a happiness that cannot be replicated – I have also wished that I myself had one with whom I might also spend late nights._

_And yet I realize, as I write these words, that I too have spent late nights sneaking around these past few months as I have written these letters, and it occurs to me now that perhaps it is you who is the love of my life.You scoff, I know you do, and rightly so perhaps, as I do not write this without just a little jest. But at the same time, is not the love of one’s life the person with whom you wish to spend most of your time? The person for whom you would do anything just to see a smile cross his face? The person for whom you would knowingly lay down your own life, if there was but a chance they might live?_

_I doubt I will have the opportunity to so directly preserve your life, as I know when I go to the barricade, it will almost certainly be without you by my side, but I believe that if we are to die in what is to come, it will be to usher in better days for all the people._

_And you, my dear Marius, are certainly one of the people. Meaning in a way, my death in whatever is to come will be for you. Consider it a sacrifice I am willing to make, with all the love that I possess._

“He really did love you,” Cosette remarked softly, resting her head again against Marius’s shoulder as they walked, and it took a while for Marius to be able to respond.

“Yes,” he said, his voice thick. “And I, him. He was – an intimate friend.”

Cosette squeezed his arm and they were silent until Marius was again able to continue reading.

But still, he felt almost emotionally drained as he returned to his bedchamber that evening, the ebullience of Cosette’s visit fading.

It disappeared entirely as he realized, glancing at his bedside table, that there was but a single letter left unread, the one dated June 1.

The one with the final words that Courfeyrac would ever write to him.

Marius sank slowly onto his bed, staring at the letter. How was he to bring himself to read what words Courfeyrac had for him, that close to the end?

How was he to read them, when he knew no others would follow?

How was he to take one more step into the future, if it meant leaving Courfeyrac in the past?

* * *

“Marius?”

Marius blinked, Cosette’s face swimming into view from where she sat next to him on a bench out in his grandfather’s garden. He realized belatedly that he had again been gazing off into space, lost within himself in a way he had not been in many weeks.

This time he did not even attempt a smile as he focused again on her. “My apologies,” he said stiffly. “What was it you were saying?”

Cosette hesitated, something unreadable in her expression. “Nevermind,” she said, and Marius shook his head.

“No, I insist,” he said. “My ill manners should not bring the entire conversation to a halt.”

Cosette didn’t smile. “I had asked if we would be reading another letter from Courfeyrac today.”

“No.” Marius was perhaps too quick with his response, his denial sounding far more curt and dismissive than he had perhaps intended, and Cosette looked taken aback by the sudden harshness of his tone. 

“If I have said something to distress you, I apologize—” she started, and Marius sighed, scrubbing a hand across his face as if he could deflect the entire conversation.

“It is not you,” he told Cosette, for the first time managing something approximating a smile, however small and strained it might be. “In my eyes you have never erred, and certainly today is no exception.”

Though Cosette looked slightly mollified by that, still she seemed unsure. “Then what—”

“There is but a single letter remaining.”

Marius’s words stretched between them, the simple seven words saying far more in what he left unsaid, and understanding flitted across Cosette’s face. “I see,” she said, and here, too, what remained unsaid spoke volumes. “May I ask why you fear reading the final letter?”

Marius’s brow furrowed. “I am not afraid of it,” he said, confused by the question.

“No? Then why not read it?”

“Because I am not ready to read Courfeyrac’s last words to me.”

Cosette nodded slowly, and she reached for Marius’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “I know that losing Courfeyrac was unbearable,” she said softly, “but after the time we have spent with him in the letters he wrote to you, I cannot believe that he would want you to dwell on this—”

“What do you know?” Marius snapped, pulling his hand away from hers. “You did not know him! You think that because you have read a dozen pages of his writing that you have insight into what the man would want for me?”

He stood, agitated, but Cosette did not shrink back at his sudden anger. “I did not know him as you did,” she acknowledged calmly. “I never met him when he lived. But I have met him through the letters he wrote you. I have seen the pieces of himself that he shared with his most intimate friend, and if you think that means I know him not, then I fear you are mistaken.”

She stood as well, brushing a hand against her skirt before pulling herself to her full height, looking at Marius evenly. “I suggest you take some time,” she told him, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “Think on why you fear this final letter, and when, or if, you will ever be ready to face it.”

He watched as she left, part of him longing to call out after her, to beg for her forgiveness, but the sullen darkness in him kept him rooted to the spot, his tongue silent. Only after she had disappeared from view did he collapse back onto the bench they had shared, overwhelmed by loss.

He did not need to think about why he feared it – he knew already why. Cosette had been more correct than she would ever know when she said that losing Courfeyrac had been unbearable, and here he stood to lose him all over again, to lose his final connection with the man he had spent every day since the barricade missing.

But even as Marius sat there, his despair threatening to drown him, he knew also that Cosette had landed on a different truth, and that he had lashed out because of it.

He would never be ready to face this, to read those final words, scribbled at the final moment of calm before the storm. He would never be ready to lose Courfeyrac, for how can one be ready to lose a part of oneself? 

And if he would never be ready, then waiting a week, a month, a year, a lifetime to read those words would do nothing to stop the pain. And as much as Marius was loath to admit it, there was a part of him who knew that Cosette had spoken truthfully about Courfeyrac as well – he would not have wanted Marius to live with this pain for his entire lifetime.

He would never have intended for Marius to live with his ghost in the form of an unread letter.

Marius knew that, just as Cosette had known that.

He only wished knowing it would make it easier.

Still, his heart was made up even if his mind was still conflicted, and it was in a sort of a haze that he made his way back indoors, that he climbed the staircase and drifted through the hall until he reached his bedchamber. It was with trembling fingers that he reached out for the final letter, that he tore its wax seal and unfolded the paper.

It was with an unspoken sob filling his chest that he sat on the edge of his bed to read the final letter that Courfeyrac had written to him.

_My dearest Marius,_

_General Lamarque is dead. It is strange to think how different the world was before those four words were uttered. Certainly I knew – we all knew – that something was coming, but now that it is here, I find myself on the edge of a precipice, one into which I shall jump with all our friends._

_I know not what we will find upon jumping, but we have no choice now but to jump, or else to fall just the same._

_Tomorrow, I shall send these letters – too few, I fear, too little time to write to you everything that I wished – to my family’s lawyer to be delivered to you if I do indeed succumb in the battle to come. My hope is that they bring some comfort to you, since I know I will not be there to comfort you myself. Your Cosette will be there, I hope, and between this and her, I pray that is enough._

_But even with all the comfort in the world, it does not make this final lesson any easier for me to teach: how to say goodbye._

_There are too many things left to say that will always remain unsaid, too many things to do that will remain always undone. But if we had ten more years, fifty more years, would that not also be true? Would we not always find more to say, more to do, never enough to reach the edge?_

_That is what love is, I think – never reaching the end of things to say, for at the very least, every time I have told you something as simple as ‘good morning’ has been new and different each time, and I think I could spend every one of my days saying just that to you, and watching you smile at me._

_But we have run short of days, and you and I must content ourselves with all that we have shared._

_I do not pretend it will be easy, for you as well as myself. I do not know what lies ahead, but neither you nor I can dwell in the past. We cannot look behind us: this lesson Orpheus learned all too well. We must face the future, no matter what it may bring._

_“To be free,” Combeferre told you once, in answer to your question “what greater thing is there?” And truly, I can find nothing greater. So here, as our time draws to a close, I give you my final wish—_

_That you may yet be free, and in freedom, that you may find happiness again._

_I know better than to wish that you would not mourn, would not weep. In fact, I fear I would be insulted if you did not! But when the tears have run dry, when flowers again grow over the hole in which they bury my body (but certainly never my spirit), you must find happiness. You cannot spend the rest of your days mourning me, mourning any of us._

_For as long as you live, as long as you still draw breath, none of us will truly be dead. We shall live as you live, be remembered as you remember us. Our legacy may never end up being in what Enjolras dreams, or even in what Grantaire fears – our legacy will live in you, that you may carry us with you to the future that we shall never see._

_If I have done my duty even slightly, I shall have taught you many things, but I fear the one thing I have yet to be able to teach you is how to move on, to let us live within you without losing yourself to grief._

_That is a lesson I know I shall only teach when I am dead and buried, when you live, no matter that we have fallen._

_And when one day your soul finds mine in whatever comes next, it will be with the knowledge that you have lived and laughed and loved for all the days you have left before you. That thought fills me with as much comfort as I need to face the end of my days._

_Be free, Marius. Live for me; love for me._

_Until next we meet._

_Yours faithfully, I remain, now and always,  
_ _Courfeyrac_

Marius knew he was weeping but he made no move to stifle his sobs, to stop the tears that coursed down his cheeks. Yet even as he wept, he felt as if a weight had been lifted from his chest. There was a comfort in this letter, in these final words, and he would be forever grateful that Courfeyrac had written them for him.

He wept also because he knew Courfeyrac was right. He would always bear Courfeyrac with him, for every day of his life, but the thought no longer threatened to overwhelm him, especially since he knew now that Cosette was right as well, for did not Courfeyrac also live within her heart, in every word he had read to her?

He, too, did not know what lay ahead, but it was a gift he never could have anticipated to know that he and Cosette would face it together, would go into their life together, sharing this between them, something that no one else could ever understand.

That may well have been Courfeyrac’s final gift, an unbreakable bond that Marius was lucky enough to share with the woman with whom he would also share the rest of his days. For as much grief as there was to be found in that, there was also hope, and perhaps even one day, joy, and he and Cosette would find it together.

He may not have yet been free, but as he sat there, weeping still as he held Courfeyrac’s final letter, he knew that one day, he would figure out how to be.

* * *

The late August sun was high in the sky even though it was not yet midday as Marius and Cosette made their way up the curving path to the doorway of the expansive country manor. Cosette turned her head to glance up at Marius, her brow furrowed slightly. “Are you certain you want to go through with this?” she asked. “There is none who would hold it against you if you did not, not even myself.”

Marius turned his head as well so that his lips could brush lightly against her temple. “I am certain,” he said with a confidence that spoke of the months they had spent together, learning and growing in each other’s company. “This is something that I must do.”

He squared his shoulders when he reached the door and knocked briskly, taking a step back when, after a moment, the door swung open. “Yes?” the man who Marius assumed was the butler said, more curious than curt.

“Hello,” Marius said courteously. “My name is Marius Pontmercy, and this is my wife, Cosette. Are Monsieur and Madame de Courfeyrac in?”

The butler eyed him warily. “I am afraid not,” he said. “They are abroad.”

Marius nodded. He had known this was a possibility, but he had still felt the trip out to the country would be worth it, in the end. “Then may I leave something in your possession until their return?” The butler hesitated before nodding, and Marius withdrew the bundle of letters from his pocket and handed it to the butler. “I was a friend of their son. Those are letters he wrote me before he – he died.”

Even here, even now, he faltered just slightly on the word, though Cosette’s gentle touch on his arm was enough to keep him grounded, and after only a brief moment, he was able to continue. “I thought they might bring some comfort to his parents, the way they have brought comfort to me.”

The butler stared down at the letters, his expression unreadable. Then, abruptly, he said, “He was a handful as a child. Always underfoot, always in the kitchens or the servant's hall where he was not meant to be, always causing a ruckus.”

Marius laughed lightly. “I admit, I would have been surprised if he wasn’t,” he said with a smile, one that the butler returned.

“He grew into a fine young man,” the butler told him, and Marius’s smile slipped, just for a moment. “And he is missed, at least by me.”

“By us as well,” Cosette told him gently, and the butler nodded, his eyes suspiciously red.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “I shall make sure M. and Mme. de Courfeyrac receive these. Thank you for coming all this way.”

Marius inclined his head. “It was no trouble,” he assured the butler, who gave him one final nod before closing the door.

For one long moment, Marius stared up at the house that Courfeyrac had grown up in, envisioning what he must have been like for the butler to remember him with so much fondness – and exasperation. Then he let out a sigh that seemed as if it had been held in for a year, and turned to face Cosette. “Shall we?” he asked lightly, again offering her his arm.

As she looped her arm through his, she asked carefully, “Are you disappointed you did not meet them?”

Marius considered it for a moment as they retreated back down the path. “No,” he said. “I knew the man they made, and for me, that is enough a testament to them, even without ever meeting.” Cosette made a small noise of agreement, resting her head against Marius’s shoulder as they walked, and they had almost made it to their carriage before Marius added, “Though there is something I must confess.”

“Oh?” Cosette asked teasingly. “What secrets are you keeping from me?”

From the pocket of his coat, Marius withdrew another letter, which he handed to her. “I kept the last one,” he told her. “Courfeyrac’s final letter.”

Cosette’s expression softened as she glanced down at the letter. “And I understand why you did,” she told him. “What was written in this letter was meant for you, even more so than the rest. It is only right that you keep it.”

Marius cleared his throat. “Actually, that is part of my final secret. There is a little something for you in the letter as well, something I have not yet shown you.”

Cosette frowned as she opened the letter, one he had read aloud to her more times than either could count – read aloud save for the final comment, the postscript Marius had saved for this moment. “Postscript,” Cosette read aloud, and even though she had never met Courfeyrac in life, Marius marveled at what he could hear of Courfeyrac in her voice reading his words: 

_To Cosette, Marius’s beloved,_

_I regret that we never had a chance to meet, though certainly Marius will tell you of our various exploits trying to find you. Of course, it is perhaps for the better, as I have no doubt had we met, I would have wooed you far more effectively than young Master Pontmercy._

_Alas! It was not to be, but what is to be is this – you and Marius, together. As it is meant to be. You must love him for the both of us, and I hope that one day, when you start a family, you will keep me as a part of it, just as I would’ve been had I lived to meet you._

_With all my love to the both of you,  
_ _Courfeyrac_

Cosette’s voice broke as she read his name, and Marius wordlessly drew her into his arms, holding her for a long moment. When Cosette pulled back, it was with a look of something close to wonder on her face. “How did he always know the right words?” she marveled, and Marius just shook his head.

“I wish I knew,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, and Cosette kissed him lightly before they again walked toward the carriage.

After a moment, she added, “Well, he was right about one thing, at least,” she said off-handedly, and Marius scowled at her, already guessing where this comment was headed.

“He would’ve swept you off your feet if you had met?” he guessed, slightly sourly, and Cosette laughed, her laugh sounding perfectly at place amongst the singing of the birds in the trees.

“No,” she told him, nudging him lightly with her hip. “He would’ve been a part of our family.”

“Ah,” Marius said, emotion again welling in his chest. “Yes. He would have.”

Cosette nodded. “Godfather to our child,” she said calmly, and Marius huffed a laugh.

“Oh yes, I could certainly see—” He broke off, realization hitting him. “Wait, do you mean—?” Cosette nodded, her smile widening as Marius stared at her, and she burst into laughter when Marius let out a whoop, grabbing Cosette and spinning her around. “My love—”

“I know,” Cosette told him, returning his embrace. “I know.”

And she did, in a way that no other ever could. As Marius placed his hand on her stomach, above the life growing within, he was filled with wonder at all that they shared, at all that Courfeyrac had brought to them, even if he never knew it.

He offered a silent prayer of thanks to wind in hopes that it would find Courfeyrac, wherever he was, and then he pulled Cosette to him to pepper her face with kisses until she laughed and pushed him away.

Despite everything, or perhaps because of everything, Marius was whole, and loved, with almost everything he had ever wanted.

And finally, he was free.


End file.
